Coming Down the Mountain

It seems I have been staring

at this blank page for days as

I rummage through my mind for

something to write about.

There’s been half started stories,

reflections on power, leadership,

love, jealousy, work, summer,

sex, booze, childhood memories.

Yet all of them, all those words,

have fallen off the smooth surface

of this cruel blank page.

Avalanche like.

A slow start, a snowflake too many,

and the whole mountain side of

prose comes rocketing down the

mountain and smothers the valley below.

St. Bernard’s are down in the word snow now,

looking for survivors, or corpses.

It’s not looking good for those valiant

canine heroes. Or the booze around their necks.

The word snow is just too deep, not in philosophy,

but in their number. A jumble of uninspired,

lazy words, crammed on top of each other in

ununified layers, saying little, with a lot.

I’ve had kissing scenes in my head,

passionate, sweet kisses between lovers,

fall apart as my own bitterness has poisoned

my fictional lovers.

They stare at me, blankly, waiting for me to

get to the good part, when their hearts swell

with absolute joy for each other, but all they get

is silence. Almost a quickie of literary writer’s block.

The child version of myself, sits quietly, waiting for

me to finish the rest of his story on the day he lost

his Superman toy car down the sewer at recess,

both I’m afraid are forever lost.

The hallways of political power are

empty, because I cannot seem to clarify

what it is I’m trying to say about political heroism,

as I seem to have become jaded.

Crashing down into a huge pile of

inconsequence, the words have buried,

the small village where ideas live,

breathe, multiply and die.

My focus seems to be on the trivial,

on my annoyances, my pains, my

inexplicable desires for what I believe is

right, my shame.

This blank page…

This damn blank page…

This god damn blank page…

This son of a whore god damn blank page…

Rummage, rummage, rummage…